


Seconds

by DelightfulExcess (SevereStorms)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Belly Kink, First Time, Food Kink, Loss of Virginity, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Weight Gain, chubby Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5021041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/DelightfulExcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 70+ years of hard living, Bucky is ready for a little softness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seconds

The server slides the two plates onto the table and glances over his shoulder, looking harried and preoccupied. “Enjoy,” he commands brusquely before vanishing back into the maze of tables. The two men at the table stare down at the food they’ve just been served in obvious dismay.

“Shoot,” Steve says, leaning across the table to whisper, “Bucky, what is this stuff?” He gestures to his stylishly modern oblong plate, with its strange and unidentifiable contents.

“I don’t know,” Bucky replies. “I thought it said “Classic American Fare,” but this macaroni and cheese has _squash_ in it. And it’s a bunch of little _squares._ ” He pokes at the objects on his plate and smiles over at Steve. “Want to get out of here?”

“Please,” Steve answers with obvious relief, as he waves down the server. As they wait for their check, each glancing nervously around the noisy, crowded restaurant, Steve mutters wryly, “ _For he said, I have been a stranger in a strange land._ ”

“Brother, you ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie.” 

Steve insists on paying, as if there were a choice, and they make their way out into the cold night. Bucky instantly feels better; most of the neighborhoods he knows have changed so dramatically as to be unrecognizable, but this block, a canyon of towering Gilded Age monoliths, is still more or less as he remembers it. He feels more at home, and it’s an illusion, but a comfortable one. Bucky doesn’t fight it. He reckons maybe he deserves a little comfort.

Bucky studies his friend surreptitiously as he chafes his gloveless hands together and blows into them for warmth. Steve’s bundled into a heavy shearling jacket and a plaid wool scarf, but the layers don’t obscure the overall effect of his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped height. He’s distractingly gorgeous, and to anyone else, the blandly affable expression that typically graces his familiar features would be convincing, but Bucky has always been able to see through the superhero persona to the man underneath. Steve isn’t happy; he hasn’t been happy for months, not since he stopped being a superhero, in fact. He hasn’t quit; he says it’s just a hiatus, but Bucky’s seen him watch the news, hands tightening into fists and small muscles in his jaw twitching with suppressed emotion. He’s not sure what it means.

He’d like to ask about it, the falling out between Steve and Tony Stark, the dissolution of the Avengers, all of it, but he’s pretty sure Steve will shrug it off if he comes at it directly. He worries about Steve’s reluctance to talk about it. He seems to think that he has to deal with it alone, that admitting uncertainty will cause Bucky distress, when in fact it would be a relief to know that Steve is aware he doesn’t have to solve every single problem on earth by himself. Being Captain America has always been a thankless task; all Steve seems to get for it is trouble. And that thought pokes at Bucky, making him wonder...

“Have I thanked you?” he asks, pausing, laying his good hand lightly on Steve’s elbow.

“For what?” Steve asks, looking genuinely perplexed.

“For saving my life. Again.”

“Aw, hell Buck,” Steve says, starting to walk again. “I think we’re past that. Besides, you’d have done the same.”

“Actually, I tried to kill you.”

“Didn’t quite manage it, though,” Steve says, “Luckily for you.” And although his tone is light, there’s something there, behind the words, that Bucky doesn’t like. He thinks about it the whole way home - or what’s going for home these days, the tiny Brooklyn apartment he’s been sharing with Steve for the last two months, ever since he completed his rehabilitation and left the facility where Steve took him after he finally tracked him down.

Bucky wants to stop him again, to hold him by his absurdly brawny shoulders and look into his eyes, _make_ him understand the real depth of his gratitude, but he knows a headlong strike against Steve’s self-deprecation is utterly senseless. 

They pass a bodega, rich, spicy smells emanating from the takeout counter inside. The fragrance is homely, comforting, and it awakens a blur of memories, all of them good, of meals shared in the past, in kitchens and mess halls and underneath canvas tents. “Wait a sec,” he says. “I need to pick up a couple things.”

An hour later, Bucky serves up two heaping plates of spaghetti and meatballs with thick slices of garlic bread, which they eat sitting in the microscopic breakfast nook adjacent to the narrow galley kitchen. The heat of the stove warms the entire apartment, and it will probably smell like garlic for days, but it’s a small price to pay for home cooking.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” Steve says, sopping up marinara with a chunk of bread. He’s eaten three helpings, and Bucky feels strangely flattered by his obvious enjoyment.

“I can’t; not really. Just picked up a few things here and there.”

“Fooled me,” Steve says appreciatively. “I haven’t had plain old spaghetti since...god, I don’t even remember. It’s hard to find home cooking when this is home and I’m the one in charge of the cooking.”

“Well, maybe you should put me in charge of the cooking,” Bucky says. “You hate getting recognized at restaurants anyway.”

Steve looks at him, obviously bemused by this suggestion, and Bucky shrugs, feeling a little embarrassed, but nonetheless determined. “If you want to, I’m certainly not objecting,” Steve answers him finally. “But you don’t have to.”

“You didn’t have to take me in,” Bucky says.

“I did, actually,” Steve says, leaning back in his chair. They’ve already talked about this. Bucky knows there were people who wanted him sent to some off-the-grid military prison, or else just killed outright, people who thought leaving him alive was too much risk. But when Captain Fucking America offers to take personal responsibility for someone, people tend to listen.

“You didn’t. You could’ve let me die, or let them ship me off to god knows where. You’re not responsible for the whole entire world, you know.”

Steve shrugs and rises to his feet, gathering up the dishes. “No,” he agrees, “We’re all responsible for it. I just try to do my part.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but lets it drop. “What kind of stuff do you like? I’ll go shopping tomorrow.”

“I’m pretty easy to please,” Steve says. “What else can you cook?”

Bucky thinks about it. “Well, I’ve got a recipe for squash-free macaroni and cheese that isn’t square, for one thing. Hamburgers, of course, ham and eggs, steak and eggs, pretty much anything else you eat with eggs. Spaghetti, obviously. Uh, toast. I make some pretty mean toast.”

“You know I don’t have a toaster, right?”

“Could you get one?”

“Not much counter space.”

“Well, scratch the toast, then.”

Steve, who is now elbow-deep in foaming dishwater, glances over his shoulder and grins, his white smile rendering him so dazzlingly handsome that Bucky is tempted to raise his hand to shield his eyes. “You’re hired,” he says.  
___________

At first he’s dreadful; his bionic arm is better suited for combat than cooking, and that awkwardness plus the long absence from kitchens and normal, everyday tasks like feeding himself take their toll. The eggs are over-easy instead of over-hard, every dish comes out a little dry, a little too salty or a little too bland. The spaghetti had been easy, sauce from a jar and pasta from a box; meatballs a no-brainer since they’re just like round hamburgers and any idiot can cook a hamburger. 

It breaks his heart when he pulls a casserole dish out of the temperamental oven and sees its blackened, smoking surface.

Steve claps him on the shoulder and he turns, startled. “Smells great,” Steve says. 

“Stop. You don’t have to do that.”

“Bucky.” 

“Yeah?”

“Is it ready?”

He eats all of it, and it nearly kills Bucky to watch. As he picks his way through his own miserable meal, he tries to tell himself that it’s just a subpar dinner, nothing to be upset about; but he knows it’s more than that. Steve deflects gratitude, appreciation, even love, but offer him a meal, and he’ll take it. 

He’ll take it. 

So Bucky keeps at it, because it’s more than sustenance. This is the only thing he can offer that Steve will accept. This is his gratitude and his undying loyalty and his love, expressed in edible form. But edible’s not good enough, he sees that now; for Steve, it’s got to be irresistible, delightful, rhapsodic.

He learns Steve’s preferences, little by little. He lives for the moment when Steve’s mouth closes carefully around a piping hot bite, his eyes drift shut, and he murmurs praise around a melting mouthful. Whenever this happens - more and more frequently, as Bucky sharpens his skills – his satisfaction is nearly transcendent. It fills him with joy to be good at something that doesn’t involve taking lives, but rather celebrates life, even sustains it.

He wakes up early to make biscuits and red-eye gravy with a side of bacon crisped in an iron skillet, and places a mug of strong, hot coffee in Steve’s hands as soon as he staggers out of his bedroom, drawn by the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen.

“God,” Steve moans as he bites into a flaky, buttery biscuit, releasing soft steam into the air. “You keep this up, I’ll weigh three hundred pounds, Buck.” He pats his no longer quite flat belly.

Bucky’s goal is to nourish, not to indulge a fetish, but he doesn’t mind a bit when he notices the growing softness around Steve’s waist. In fact, the sight of it makes Bucky’s stomach flip and his heart flutter. 

“I didn’t think you could,” he says, hoping he sounds offhanded, not as breathless as he feels. “Put on weight, I mean. Your metabolism-”

“I metabolize alcohol pretty fast,” Steve says around a mouthful of breakfast. “But not calories. If I were burning more than three or four thousand calories a day, I’d have to eat constantly, and I’d still probably dwindle down to nothing. Didn’t anyone explain this stuff to you when they…” he swallows hard and stops, shaking his head. “Sorry, Buck.”

“No, it’s fine, they never did, but it makes sense,” Bucky says. He’s never been so happy to be wrong. 

It looks right, the weight gathering around Steve’s midsection; it balances out the preposterous breadth of his shoulders, softens the hard lines of Steve’s rugged frame, but to Bucky it’s about more than what it looks like, it’s what it represents: love and hope. Love for Steve, which is what he focuses on infusing into every morsel of every meal, and hope for the future, _any_ future that has Steve Rogers in it. He feeds him because he wants him to live, wants him to _want_ to live. Because Bucky very much fears that Steve isn’t just willing to die for his country, he somehow _expects_ to, even _wants_ to, and a world without Steve is not a world Bucky wants any part of.

That softness also stands for the absence of the punishing workouts and physical stresses that have been part of day to day life for Steve until very recently. Maybe if he doesn’t look quite so much like a chiseled monument to human physical perfection, people will see that he _isn’t_ perfect, he’s just a man, no more or less than anyone else, and maybe they’ll leave him alone, or he’ll stop throwing himself in front of every deadly menace that threatens humankind. It’s a thin hope, and Bucky’s not proud of it, but it’s there.

Steve either doesn’t notice his incipient belly or doesn’t care, and that’s encouraging, too; for years, he’s treated food as fuel, treated his body like a machine, property of the U.S. Army, ready for duty at any time. It’s entirely possible that he’s never eaten for pleasure, until now.

And Bucky makes sure every meal is full of pleasure. He seeks out the best ingredients; bright yellow butter and cheese from grass-fed cows, sold by an upstate dairy farmer who comes to the Greenmarket at Grand Army Plaza every week. While he’s there, Bucky peruses the stalls, selecting blueberries grown in the light, sandy soil of the New Jersey Pine Barrens, vegetables from the black earth of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, meat from small local farms where the animals have room to roam. He learns to bake, gradually mastering a flaky pastry crust for pies and a recipe for hot milk sponge cake shared by an elderly neighbor he meets on the elevator.

The rich, old-fashioned flavor of this last item nearly transports Steve all the way back to 1940, a tender golden time machine working its sweet science one bite at a time. “God _damn,_ Bucky, that’s…well, it’s delicious, is what it is. I haven’t had anything like that since…” And they reminisce together about the good old days and the bad old days, and Bucky loves seeing Steve so grounded, connecting with the past in a positive way as he presses his fork down onto the plate to capture the last few crumbs. 

He takes an equally great pleasure in creating the kinds of flavors that used to exist before they were pummeled out of the world by machines, by plastic packages, by chemical substitutes and industrial farming. He finds a dog-eared 1931 copy of _The Joy of Cooking_ at the Fort Greene flea market and starts working his way through it. He makes Charlotte Russe and Chicken a la King and kugelhopf - familiar, reassuring recipes made with the staples he recognizes from childhood. Steve eats all of it, enough that’s it’s appreciative and just a little indulgent, never so much that it’s gluttonous, just enough to keep himself a little more than full, enough that the fronts of his shirts belly out like a sail in a strong wind. 

When they’re out in public, it seems Steve attracts even more attention than usual from men and women alike. Bucky learns to watch for it, the subtle dip of an observer’s eyes from Steve’s face down to the generous curve at his middle, and back up again, slow and easy, before sliding over to glance at Bucky, wondering if they’re together. Sometimes the look comes with a nod of acknowledgement as if to say, _We’re both agreed that he’s the loveliest thing on God’s green earth, yes?_ Bucky’d like to slip an arm around Steve’s shoulders and lay one hand protectively over his rounded belly, just to let everyone now that it, and Steve, are _his._

Steve starts to hang around the kitchen while he works, leaning against the counter and eyeing all the bubbling pots and mixing bowls. Bucky, heart pounding, finds reasons to touch him while he’s there, oversized frame taking up most of the kitchen. He starts with gentle taps to the elbow or shoulder to let Steve know where he is and when to move, graduates to hip-to-hip nudges to get him out of the way when Bucky’s transferring something from the oven to the counter. But he doesn’t mind sharing the space; it’s cozy, reassuringly and improbably domestic, an impossible dream that of all people, the two of them should be able to do something as normal as this, as intimate.

“Taste this,” Bucky says, holding out a wooden spoon coated with a bit of sauce or dough or batter, and Steve leans forward willingly as Bucky guides the spoon to his lips with his good hand, which is trembling. Steve sees the tremor and wraps his hand lightly around Bucky’s, testing the end of the spoon with his tongue, then sucking the blunted end of it eagerly, eyebrows lifted in pleased surprise.

“God, that’s so good,” he breathes. “And I’m so hungry.”

The eroticism of it isn’t lost on Bucky, and he’s almost sure Steve is right there with him, just like always, but it still feels like a terrifying risk on the night when Bucky says, “Here, taste,” and holds up a candied chestnut for Steve to sample without the token barrier of the spoon. His heart pounds as Steve hesitates, leans slowly forward, and plucks it delicately from Bucky’s fingertips with his teeth, eyes wry and blue and never leaving Bucky’s.

A breath escapes Bucky’s chest, something like a laugh, because he’s just thought of the first time a horse accepted an apple from his hand, the sweet, trusting look in the expressive equine gaze as the animal lipped the fruit from his palm, the warm, whuffling velvet of the animal’s nose brushing against his skin.

He fumbles blindly on the counter, comes up with a halved apricot soaked in honey, and holds it out toward Steve, pulling it closer to his own body when Steve leans forward to take it between his lips, drawing him into his own physical space. Steve just smiles, stepping in kiss-close, and slides his hands around Bucky’s face. His mouth is warm, sweet and tart, still tasting of apricot.

Anywhere else, at any other time, it might have been too much, but here, in the kitchen, it’s just right; they’re cocooned in the heat of the oven and the lingering aromas of cooking food. Bucky’s arms close around Steve’s body and he feels a shock of physical need as the curve of Steve’s full belly bumps against him. He groans as he slides his hands up to Steve’s chest and then downward over the lovely rounded shape of him, substantial, steady, secure.

Their lips part for an instant and Steve closes his eyes like he’s waiting for bad news, but Bucky tugs him back and Steve kisses him again, deeply and thoroughly, his whole attention just on this one thing, kissing Bucky, and Bucky doesn’t know why he’s surprised that Steve should be so good at this. He suspects, but isn’t sure, that Steve is a virgin - not despite, but because of, the way he’d started to attract attention as soon as he’d undergone his physical transformation. It’s important, Bucky knows, that they forged their connection before that happened, that he loved him before they both changed. 

But kissing…it’s not always about experience. Sometimes it’s about attentiveness, and sensitivity, and Steve’s wholesome earnestness flavors everything he does, makes it sweet and right and lovely, and Bucky clings to him, never wanting him to stop. 

They've woven a spell here, in the little one-bedroom; made a little place where they can be together, even if it’s just for this little while. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him, doesn’t know how long all the competing forces who seem to think they own a piece - or even all - of Steve will leave them alone, but he doesn’t care, because they have right now, and right now is just fine.

Steve isn’t insistent, he’s gentle and deliberate, mindful of the volition that’s been stripped away in the past, letting the encounter simmer so long, Bucky thinks he might go insane. Again. He’s making little sounds, he can hear himself and it’s almost embarrassing, but he can’t seem to stop. The pleasure of it is rapturously intoxicating, the gentleness, the softness, all of it, and he’s...well, after all he’s been through, this is what’s finally making him lose it.

He tugs at Steve’s shirt, pulling roughly at the buttons, gasping as his hands encounter smooth, hot skin, and then Steve skins out of his shirt and Bucky can’t help but smile, he feels almost giddy at the sight of all that gorgeous brawn.

“Sweet Jesus,” he breathes, and Steve huffs a laugh.

“Hey,” he says. “No call for blasphemy.”

“Isn’t there?” Bucky shakes his head, still staring at the breathtaking expanse of chest and shoulders, all that thick, thick muscle and glowing skin. His pecs still have some definition, almost all the extra weight has gone to his belly, and oh, _god_ , if that isn’t just about the most enchanting thing he’s ever seen. His belly is the perfect shape, not too big and not too small, standing out round and full, firm and substantial, golden hairs trailing down from the hollow of his navel to his straining waistband. He rests his hand on it, voice shaking a little as he says, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it’s like when people talk about the Grand fuckin’ Canyon. I’m having a goddamn religious experience here.”

Steve opens his mouth to protest, sees the gleam in his oldest friend’s eyes, and shrugs it off, closes his mouth over Bucky’s again. The light needling has woken something in Steve, Bucky can feel it, just that little extra bit of edge, that firm but protective authority asserting itself. Now Steve backs him up so he’s pinned between the formica counter and Steve’s soft belly, and Bucky moans into Steve’s mouth, grinding his hips against Steve’s, against the hardness there and moaning some more.

He hears Steve’s breath catch, the knee-jerk shove of his hips, and then they’re both breathing hard, pushing into the frustrating pleasure-pain of this achingly insufficient friction. Finally Steve says his name, hoarse and desperately wanting, and Bucky pushes him away, slides down from his half perch on the counter and tugs Steve after him, into the little bedroom, closing the door behind them.

“Bucky, what…?” Steve asks, but Bucky shushes him, pushes him back on the bed, dragging a longing caress over the sweet roundness at his waist, then pressing a kiss to the crest, working his way down as he unbuckles his belt and shucks off his trousers. His cock is flushed and straining, his eyes closed, and he tosses and turns like he’s having a troubling dream until Bucky closes his lips around him and lets himself glide, slow and easy, up and down the length. His body goes rigid, strong hands fisting in the sheets, and he groans around gritted teeth.

It’s ecstatic and delicious and not enough; Steve, predictably, lasts and lasts, and finally the sweet and sour ache in Bucky’s body is more than he can stand; the more he gives the worse it gets, he’s hard and burning from the warm, well-fed swell of Steve’s belly and the little sounds he coaxes from Steve’s throat. He pulls away and claws at the closure of his own jeans, tearing them off and climbing up on the bed, thumbing over Steve’s cock, finding it slick and wet and shining.

He leans over Steve, lips parted to receive his salty-sweet kiss, and pulls him over, rolling in his embrace until they’re lined up, Steve’s hands warm and gentle, his breath hot against his ear as he asks, “You sure?” And his answer is a barely coherent moan of _yesyesyes_ as he feels the nudge of him at his entrance. He rolls onto his belly and grinds into the sheets as Steve fits himself to Bucky’s body, knee to tender back of knee, curve of belly to sway of back, and Bucky’s already pushing back against him as he makes the first tentative thrust, a shared cry as the burn melts away and he finally sinks in, cock-deep.

Bucky’s tight but only at first; as he loosens and slickens around Steve’s heavy cock, he moves more freely, helping set a rhythm. In: thrust and thrill and throb; out: gasp and groan and grind, scrabble in the sheets because _oh god_ there’s no word for how good it is. He falters here and there, overwhelmed, too full, and Steve steadies him, hands sliding under him to clasp him tight and he’s never felt so raw, so wrecked, so safe.

He whimpers as he starts to come, moving against the sheets with each thrust of Steve’s body into his, and he shudders helplessly, blood pounding in his ears as he loses control of his muscles and they chase a faster beat, tiny muscles twitching and he’s - _oh_ , he’s - 

“ _Jesus, Bucky,_ ” Steve rasps into his nape, and then Bucky feels him shaking apart, gasping and bucking into him, the deep penetration heightening his own orgasm, and he buries his face in the sheets, mouth open in a silent cry of ecstatic pleasure. They wind down together, movements halting, slowing and slowing and finally stopping. Steve cock softens inside him, and he’s sticky and hot and indescribably happy, lying still and sated at last under Steve’s heavy, solid arm.

Eventually, he twists, resting his head against that epic breadth of chest, listening to the slow steady beat of Steve’s heart as his good hand drifts almost unconsciously to the swell of his belly, slick with shared sweat.

Steve covers his hand with his own, and his voice rumbles in his chest as he asks, “What is it about this, huh? I’d be embarrassed if it weren’t so obvious I’ve got no reason to be, as far as you’re concerned.”

Bucky glances up at him, a blush rising to his face. “I’ve spent a lifetime being cold,” he says, and he pauses, collecting himself, then continues, “I’ve had enough of everything that’s thin and spare and not enough. This…” his fingers circle the dip of Steve’s navel, “This is everything good in the world; it’s plenty and just a little bit more, warm and soft… _so_ soft…” and though he ought to be spent he isn’t, quite, _want_ always gathering in response to the thick softness that is Steve. 

His gaze drifts over Steve’s body and he sees he isn’t alone. His body’s a little sore but it’s already on the mend; all he feels is the slight echo of the orgasm that just rocketed through his system. He lets his hand slide out from under Steve’s, following the slope down to his cock, feeling it fill and tighten in his hand.

“More,” he whispers.

He feels Steve’s smiles under his feather-light kiss as he replies. “I’m always up for seconds.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, I don't know, I somehow ended up over at iwritetheweirdstuff's [amazing Tumblr](http://iwritetheweirdstuff.tumblr.com/) and figured I'd throw my hat in the ring.
> 
> I'm delightfulexcess [on Tumblr](http://delightfulexcess.tumblr.com/), I'd love it if you stopped by for a visit.


End file.
